


Undaunted Eyes

by giraffeontherocks



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, mostly canon-compliant, very brief Jehan/OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeontherocks/pseuds/giraffeontherocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Prouvaire is sixteen and his lips are sticky with strawberries, and his skin is red with wine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
“Poetry, the hand that wrings  
(Bruised albeit at the strings)  
Music from the soul of things.”  
  
\- Digby Mackworth Dolben

 

Jean Prouvaire is sixteen and his lips are sticky with strawberries, and his skin is red with wine. With legs splayed apart and striped trousers stretched at the backside, he gazes fondly up at his school friend, nameless but for the _Etienne_ breathed between them as they paused to kiss against the wall of the wine shop.

Etienne is broad-shouldered and his back is littered with moles. Though they have shared classes for years, Jean has never really known of him before today. Usually he sits with the thinner boys, the ones with flyaway hair and a passion for anything but arithmetic, and when they change for afternoon exercise his eyes are drawn to his slimmer peers. Etienne is too muscular and too square-jawed, but right now, with Jean’s tongue heavy with wine, he’s – he’s --

“Beautiful,” Jean sighs, and reaches up to cup the back of Etienne’s neck.

He tastes of fine tobacco.

“What is?” Etienne asks when they break apart. His fingers fumble for the wine bottle and he spills most of it down his chin. Jean is seized by the urge to lick at it, to taste the firmness of his jaw beneath his tongue, between his teeth. He imagines it would be as firm as ripe fruit. He longs for it, briefly.

“This day,” Jean answers, and he’s at least partially honest. Kissing and drinking and touching is fine, but sentiment is the sort of thing that turns boys like Etienne ugly. His hands are smooth, however, as are the hands of all sons of rich men. They touch Jean’s cheeks. His thumb traces the shape of his lips.

“You’re beautiful,” Etienne says without shame and Jean parts his knees again until the young man falls between them, hands lost in the length of Jean’s hair. He tugs at tangles, loops fingers around locks. “You’re as pretty as any girl, Jehan, and rather sweeter.”

“Jean,” he attempts to correct, but then Etienne is kissing him again and he forgets his name for a while.

When they break apart, they linger with foreheads resting together. It is the first time Jean has been kissed with such conviction and he wants to savour the breathlessness. Etienne pulls back to reach for another handful of strawberries. Jehan falls back against the grass, content to watch him eat.

The school master is sure to tell their parents of their absence. It does not seem to matter as the sun drips down on them and turns them scarlet. A few admonishments from his mother will be worth but a single kiss from this unlikely comrade in crime, now moving to rest at his side.

“It’s Jean,” he tries again. He has caught his breath and a handful of dandelions all at once, plentiful in the field they’re hiding in. “Jean Prouvaire.”

“Jehan suits you better,” Etienne shrugs. Jean watches the rise and fall of his chest and places his hand there, just to feel him. He gets a smile in return and then the boy rolls on top of him, limbs firmed from athletics and lips firmer from wine.

There is an art to kissing that Jean is yet to master. He has kissed a number of people; fellow schoolboys; local girls; occasionally the older woman who rents the rooms next to his home. They have been kisses in the manner of Diana rather than Aphrodite, though, close-mouthed and hurried, small and mostly meaningless. Etienne kisses him as though he has no choice. His hands inch up Jean’s sides and slip underneath his shirt. He is straining against his breeches.

“I could fall in love with beauty such as yours,” Etienne whispers into the kiss. It’s so far removed from the words he’s heard from boys such as this that it takes Jean by surprise. His lips still and Etienne pulls back, blinking down at Jean through tousled dark hair. “I’m sorry,” he says, at once, “that was too much. We don’t know each other. That wasn’t right of me.”

“It was okay. It is okay,” Jean amends, shyly. Grass tickles at his neck. Etienne’s breath tickles at his cheeks. “I believe you are mistaken, but it is okay. You will find a lovely young woman once our studies are over. You will hold her on days like this and miss her when she isn’t in your arms. You will marry her. She will be resplendent, and you will be happy and in love.”

Etienne laughs. His mouth presses against Jean’s and for a moment he is silenced. They become tangled and giddy with it. All at once, Jean feels very young and very, very old. There is little he can think of but the gentle rock of Etienne against him, restrained but determined. He hooks an ankle around the other boy’s calf and grips onto his shoulders.

“I could fall in love with your smile,” Etienne says. His voice is a dream. The clouds pass over them.

“You could not.” Jean smiles. He regrets it. “Kiss me again, won’t you? We will not be able to be absent again. Let’s not waste these minutes talking of what will never be.”

Half an hour they spend kissing, languid, lazy. Jean is lost. Fingers work their way down the front of his trousers and grasp him clumsily, and when he comes from another’s touch for the first time he is found. Etienne cleans his hands on his school smock and kisses him, sweetly.

“I could fall in love with you,” he says. Jean does not smile this time.

“You shouldn’t,” is all he can say, is all he will say on the matter. When he stands up his hair streams down his shoulders and gets in his tired eyes. The ribbon used to tie it back has long been discarded, has been since Etienne first pulled him into the meadow of wildflowers. He reaches for the wine and finds only dregs; he gulps them down greedily, regardless.

The afternoon has begun to wear away and the air is colder as they regain their composure. Etienne allows his hands to linger at Jean’s hips as he helps him pull his trousers all the way up, but he speaks no more of love and Jean is grateful for it.

It is a concept that has intrigued, possessed and alluded him since his early youth. There is nothing more solitary and nothing more companionable than falling in love, or so the books he’s read have told him. He fills notebooks with the idea of it, but his heart has never quite galloped in the manner of Helios’s chariot, stolen only to set the earth on fire. Instead, he thinks Etienne sweet and rather clumsy, but he is not moved beyond the gratification within his trousers. There may be repeats of this and he would not be opposed to the suggestion, but there is no longevity to the desires he has. He does not love this boy. He is not sure he could ever learn to.

But love. Love. Love is something he longs for with every part of himself; he is smitten with it.

He is just not smitten with Etienne.

“Perhaps tomorrow we could return here,” Etienne suggests, lightly, fingers dusting across Jean’s back. “It would not be hard to say that we have some illness sure to spread through the rest of the boys. They may not check with our parents. We could buy more wine, more strawberries. We could spend the whole day here.”

The thought is a nice one. It is only a thought. “No,” Jean says, gently. “It would be too suspicious. We have already had one day here without giving our excuses. This shouldn’t become a habit.”

“But perhaps if we —”

“Lo! Boys, what are you doing?”

They both start at the man’s voice, moving away from each other at once. There is a man at the top of the hill, his clothes rags and his bare feet buried in the wildflowers. He leans heavily on his cane, squinting down at them. Jean is grateful he had not come minutes earlier, when he was unraveling beneath Etienne’s hands.

“We are talking, old man,” Etienne shoots back. The bravado often glimpsed in classes has returned; he is tall with it, chest puffed out. There is a hardness to his jaw. “Leave us be. Go away.”

The man laughs and limps down towards them. Etienne moves protectively in front of Jean. Jean steps away from him.

Their boots are polished where his feet are naked and darkened by dirt. Their hair is soft, brushed tenderly by loving mothers, where the man’s is mostly gone, the remains of it unwashed. The cane he uses is crudely carved from wood, and when he smiles again at them, Jean notes that most of his teeth are missing. It stirs something in him, and he reaches for the last of the strawberries, offering them to the man.

“Here,” he says, gently. Etienne stares at him and the man’s smile falters. “Please have them.”

The man shakes his head. There is pride in his eyes and he straightens his back. “I don’t need the leftovers and the pity of young men such as yourselves.”

“We’re not —”

“Please,” Jean cuts through Etienne, who glowers. “We have had more than enough and we would only leave them here to rot. It is not pity. We are all men here.”

The man lifts an eyebrow. He looks amused now, and shrugs. “Men? You’re just a boy, and a pretty one and that. If you insist, though, I will eat them.”

He does, and there’s a hungry greed to the speed of it; they have disappeared in moments, leaving a red smear across his cracked lips. He smacks them, loudly. “Thank you,” he says. Etienne scoffs, and the man looks at him.

“You could learn something from this one,” he says, lightly. “He is much kinder than the other boys you bring down here.”

Etienne flushes red and goes to strike the man, but Jean grabs his arm before he can swing. That he is not the first to be here is of no importance to him, but Etienne looks cruel with the reveal of the truth, and he is liking the thought of returning here less and less. The man leaves, struggling slightly with the climb up the hill, and when he is out of sight Jean releases him.

He has gained so much from this afternoon, but it does not bear repeating. He tells Etienne as much and soon he is left alone to clear up the residue of wine and fruit. He has kissed and been kissed liked never before, and he has a name that is softer, sweeter.

Jehan.

With a smile, he starts the long walk home to face the consequences of truancy.

 

***

When it is time to begin university, Jehan chooses Paris for it’s history and prestige. His parents were happy to send their only son North for a fine education in the manner of his father. He reluctantly says goodbye to all of his former friends. None of them are joining him in the capital.

He does not say goodbye to Etienne. He has long since matured, and Jehan doesn’t much miss him. The boys at school say Etienne has the face of a banker and the spirit of Narcissus, and barely a thought in his head but for the young widowed woman he seduced in the Spring. It is not hard to leave him behind, even with the breathless memories of their sweet summer kisses, but it is hard to leave the safety of the South.

His father takes him to Paris and settles him in beautiful rooms with a view of Notre Dame over the rooftops, before leaving with a gentle hand clasped at his shoulder. Jehan is alone in a strange new city and he busies himself with preparation; he has selected the Classics as his best chance at success, and the pile of books at his new desk is already foreboding.

***

The lecture on the the _Res Gestae Divi Augusti_ entrances him. His professor speaks somberly and lengthily, and most of the boys are half-asleep at their desks, but Jehan is sat upright. There is a dead world that is but a stone’s throw away and he wants to know it all, know of every failed leadership and mythological god that tried to destroy another, and every romance that has lasted through years of dull education and dusty parchments.

“Monsieur, please,” Jehan says, when there is a lull in the lecture for questions, and heads turn his way, “why were Caesar’s murderers not clearly named if they were known?”

The professor turns to him and opens his mouth, but the door slams open and he snaps it shut again. A boy stumbles in, looking rather worse for wear. He is older than Jehan and he has reddened eyes and an unappealing face, and Jehan can smell whiskey on his breath when he slumps at the desk next to his.

“Grantaire,” the professor says, striding over to him. He slams a book on the newcomer’s desk, shaking the legs of it, and the boy blinks up at him impassively. “I had hoped this year might mark a new you. I seem sadly mistaken.”

“My apologies,” the boys mumbles. He rubs a hand through his dark hair and glances sideways, meeting Jehan’s eye. Jehan lifts his eyebrows. “Won’t happen again. My apologies.”

“That is twice you have offered them to me, and yet I still don’t hear any sincerity in your words,” comes the snapped reply. “If you are late again, Grantaire, I shall strike you from my register entirely. I shall not be as lenient as I have been in the past.”

Grantaire nods. He looks unperturbed where Jehan would be devastated. When the professor resumes his answer to Jehan’s question, Jehan doesn’t listen; he is staring at Grantaire, intrigued. Their eyes meet again and Grantaire winks. Jehan looks away quickly, colour rising fast across the back of his neck, and tries to concentrate again.

The lecture passes more slowly after he’s lost some of his rapture. A few of the boys take to murmuring in the back, kicking at each other’s feet beneath their desks. The professor does not seem to notice, lost as he is in his own loving renditions of Augustus’s memorial. Jehan shakes his head at himself and starts to scratch out notes again, sucking thoughtfully at the tip of his little finger as he does so.

A balled up scrap of paper smacks him on the cheek and he chokes. The professor gives him an odd look and he bows his head until the lecture continues.

Grantaire is smiling at him wickedly and gesturing for him to open the paper. Jehan chances a glance at their professor, but he is consumed by his lecture notes again. Jehan unfolds the page.

_You are as beautiful as Hera surely was._

Jehan goes a bright, burning red and tries not to smile. Grantaire does not seem sincere in his affections, as his eyes are mocking and his mouth a tired smirk, yet Jehan decides to humour him. He turns the paper over and dips his pen in ink.

_You must be a Bacchae. Behave._

Grantaire laughs out loud when he reads it. The professor starts to look over again and so he hides the page beneath his books. Jehan feels a little embarrassed for his abruptness but Grantaire seems happy enough with his response. He is not sure what possessed him to reply so playfully; there is no flirtation in Grantaire’s gaze, and Jehan gives none in return. It is only his third lecture and he has few acquaintances so far, most of the newer students roomed together for convenience. Perhaps Grantaire can be his first friend.

For the last half hour they do not glance at each other; Jehan at last resumes paying attention, and Grantaire puts his head against his desk. When the lecture is finally finished, Jehan lingers at his desk in a show of gathering up his notes.

Grantaire sways slightly on his feet as he stands, and in the space of a second a flask is pressed to his lips, and then is pocketed once more. The other boys file past. A couple of them smile at Jehan, and a few more of them roll their eyes at Grantaire. He is oblivious to their scorn.

“Call me R,” Grantaire says, suddenly. He grabs his few belongings with one hand and offers the other to Jehan, who takes it. There’s a firm handshake and no spark, but Jehan already feels some warmth in his heart.

“Jean Prouvaire, but call me Jehan.”

“I like you,” Grantaire announces, and grins toothily. “I like you a lot. Is this your last class of the day?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect.” The flask reemerges and wafts beneath Jehan’s nose. He wrinkles it, but takes it, and takes a hearty swig just as the door closes behind the professor. “Come out with me. I know a luscious little bar with a luscious girl to serve us wine.”

Jehan should study over his notes from this afternoon’s lecture. He should breathe in the air of his new rooms and not down the spirits so surely set in front of him. He should spend his time with wiser counsel.

He smiles at Grantaire. “Of course,” he says, and marvels at the smile Grantaire gives him in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to join me over at my [tumblr](http://giraffeontherocks.tumblr.com) as I cry about art history and fictional characters.


	2. Chapter 2

The streets of Paris prove cruel. Grantaire talks incessantly as he leads Jehan through them, distracting in his tales of heroic fights of the honest Parisian men of the past, but not quite distracting enough. Jehan sees the suffering around them. There are weeping women who shiver in doorways, crying children crushed against their dry breasts.

Jehan gives the first four people he sees in rags a handful of coins, until Grantaire takes his arm. He is laughing.

“You have money.”

“No. My father has money.”

“Regardless, if you go on giving it to every poor soul you pass you will soon be robbed of it entirely. Pace yourself and your charity, or Paris will bleed you dry.”

It’s difficult, but when they pass the next bony couple who are clutching at their prominent rib cages, Jehan just walks on by. It’s painful to do so. He comes from a sweet province in the South that has it’s own share of peasants, but none have starved quite so obviously. They stay in their rural suffering and bother those who step on cobble streets little. Here, in Paris, this cruelty is inescapable; it batters down doors and the rich can do little to prop them back up before they fall again.

Jehan wants to cast off his spotted cravat and join them, to declare himself their equal. It isn’t fair that he can step in time with this drunk, after a day of vigorous education that will afford him a job at the end of it and give him a long life of luxury and excess.

A long life of luxury while others waste away seems no life at all.

“Do not look so sad, young Hera,” Grantaire sighs. He waves a hand as they walk, taking in the whole of Paris with one sweep of it. “A sous from you may ease the burden of a crying child for perhaps an hour, but nothing will change at your hand. At least you don’t know the swell the ache in their bellies as they starve. You are free to come and go. Every great city is bred from great misery. Do not let it trouble you.”

“It doesn’t trouble you?”

“Little troubles me,” Grantaire shrugs, tipping his hat to a gentleman who passes. “I cannot save anybody and my worry would only be but another burden. Besides, it would make me a hypocrite to pity the woes of any other.”

Jehan studies him, for a moment. There is no way to tell how sincere Grantaire is being. He does not seem the type to feel nothing for the hungry masses, and there is a lightness to his words that seems forced. Jehan, though, does not know him well enough to comment; he keeps silent and follows him.

They reach the inn in good time, and the man and woman serving their few customers look pleased to see Grantaire. He greets them with an overblown bow, orders some wine and proceeds to the table in the farthest corner. There are enough seats at the table for many, but only he and Jehan take them.

“Are you expecting friends?” Jehan asks, glancing around. The place is small and shabby, but it is warmer than the streets had been and the patrons look relaxed. Grantaire removes his hat and reaches for the wine laid out for them, pouring them each a glass. “We could seat a platoon of men around us.”

“Friends? Of a sort.” Grantaire looks across the inn, as Jehan sips at his wine. It is fruity and syrupy all at once, and he downs half of it after the first taste. “A few of my frequent companions often drink here before moving to the Musain.”

“What are they like?” Jehan asks. He imagines them to be just like this boy sat opposite him, their fingers tobacco stained and their breath flammable.

“You will find them kindred spirits, I’m sure. They weep for the poor despite the gold lining their own pockets. Most of them are students. All are good men.” Grantaire smirks. “Foolish men, idealistic, but good.”

Jehan laughs. “Are _you_ good, R?”

“It has been known. Why, do you wish to try me?”

Suddenly shy, Jehan looks down into the depths of his wine. Grantaire welcomes open and easy conversation but Jehan isn’t used to such brashness. He thinks in lyrical prose and to his closest friends, he speaks in it. Grantaire, though, is a new acquaintance, one known too briefly to call a friend, and Jehan is reluctant to start letting his guard down so that Paris and its drunkards can engulf him.

“Look how easy it is to make you blush!” Grantaire says, sounding genuinely astonished. “Imagine how different life might be if his cheeks would turn so red.”

“It’s not easy to —” Jehan breaks off as his skin burns, shaking his head until locks of hair fall into his eyes. “Who are you talking of?”

Grantaire adopts another’s voice, mockingly. “Citizens!” he declares, and some of the other drinkers peer at him from across the room, eyes glazed over. “We are no different to the man lying in the gutter! Let us rest there ourselves tonight and see how his back must ache, and let us pledge our devotion to his freedom!”

Jehan stares at him. Grantaire bursts out laughing.

“Ah, sweet Prouvaire. You have not yet seen the beauty Paris has to offer you if you haven’t gazed upon him. But no matter, he may grace us with his presence tonight, despite the stink of wine on our breath.”

“I - I see,” Jehan says, although he doesn’t. There is a gleam to Grantaire’s eye that he does not wish to question. Grantaire fills their glasses and leans back on his chair, staring out across the bar. There is trompe l’oeil wallpaper on the stretch of wall beside them, tricking their eyes into thinking they could wander off into an expanse of a grand garden, and Jehan brushes the flat flowers with his knuckles. Though the design is flawed and not quite convincing, the flowers remind him of home. Hyacinths, he thinks, fondly. One of his favourites.

He looks up again to see that Grantaire is staring at him with a thoughtful smile. His expression is softer than before, almost fond. “You know,” he says, voice low, “you are intriguing. I can’t work you out and I’m the best judge of character I know.”

“There’s nothing to work out,” Jehan says, with half a smile, “but what would you like to know?”

They spend the next two hours speaking of the climate of the South of France, and why they have chosen to study the Classics, and they steer clear of the topic of the poor. Grantaire proves an animated conversationalist, prone to overblown opinions and he falls foul to off-topic trains of though every other sentence. Jehan finds him amusing and softens his own words in response, opening up slowly. He imagines how Grantaire would fit in back home with Jehan’s dreamy friends and his doting parents, and thinks that he wouldn’t fit in at all.

Jehan decides, suddenly, that he likes the man in front of him.

“— so then perhaps the strongest man the world has ever seen stood before a row of schoolboys and cowered because one of us dared to question his methods in —” Grantaire breaks off in his story of how he and his friends once made a school teacher quit his job. His fingers tighten around his wine and he stares over Jehan’s head, smiling slightly. “Here they are! The cherub-faced martyrs.”

Jehan turns. A group of young men have entered the inn, rowdy but somehow refined, heading straight for the wine and Grantaire. The owners of the place rush to laden their arms with more bottles of alcohol, and they laugh, a couple of them kissing the female on her cheeks. They all settle at the table and continue their conversations. Grantaire jumps into them at once and Jehan sits in silence, blinking in surprise at how suddenly their pair has turned into a party.

Nobody seems to notice the newcomer to their group. Biting his lip, Jehan examines the two sat either side of him. One is smiling at something someone has said, looking gleeful, one arm slung easily across the back of Jehan’s seat. At Jehan’s other side is a taller boy, with darker hair, his brow furrowed in thought as he leans forward to say something to another. There are too many of them for Jehan to study and he swallows a large portion of his wine. Perhaps it is time for him to go.

He rises from his seat, and several pairs of eyes snap to him.

“Oh,” says Grantaire. He flourishes a hand in his direction. “Of course! Friends, this is Jehan Prouvaire. He studies Classics, likes poetry, used to live in the South and it is delectably easy to make his cheeks flush.”

Jehan’s cheek go scarlet now, as some of the others laugh. It is only a little mockingly, and before he knows it the smiling boy sat at his side is pulling him back into his seat, shaking his head. “Ignore Grantaire. He is a brute, I am Joly, and it is nice to meet you. Have some more wine, and we’ll get to know each other.”

Jehan hesitates. He sits.

 

***

 

It takes an hour or two, but eventually Jehan relaxes and starts to talk to these boys as he was talking to Grantaire. It has been too long since he sat in a group like this, loud with their opinions and quiet with their drinking. Only Grantaire makes a show of it, drinking at double the speed of the rest of them. Nobody remarks upon it except the angel at Grantaire’s side.

Enjolras, he had introduced himself to Jehan as. He had seemed uninterested in him until Grantaire mentioned how he had tried to help the poor, and then Enjolras had leaned towards him and started talking of the injustice surrounding them with a fire in his eyes. Jehan had been bewitched at once.

Enjolras has a smooth jaw and high cheekbones. He speaks with full lips and gestures with long-fingered hands, and the streaming blonde hair that he had tied back falls into his eyes when he gets more lively with his passion. He reminds Jehan of a young girl he used to know, angelic, with her blonde hair often a halo. She had been sweet-natured and red-cheeked. Enjolras’s cheeks are a pretty pink as his long lashes lick at them, and Jehan is sure that if he were to give a bright smile the world would melt in response.

But Enjolras does not smile. He is severe in his talk and sure in his morals, and he makes his distaste for Grantaire’s drunkenness perfectly clear. Jehan is, frankly, terrified of him.

“Leave the poor boy be,” the man at Jehan’s right - Combeferre - says, smiling slightly. “He is new to Paris. We don’t want to scare him away so soon.”

“Boy? He is no younger than some of us,” Enjolras dismisses. Grantaire rolls his eyes. “I’m not trying to scare anyone. I’m just trying to explain the political climate of Paris to him.”

Joly places a hand at Jehan’s shoulder and murmurs, close to his ear, “Perhaps it would be wise to ignore Enjolras too, at least until you are used to him. Though he’s right in what he says, he can be rather intense.”

“Are there any of you I shouldn’t ignore?” Jehan asks, smiling slightly.

“Me!” Joly says. “Bossuet, of course. Combeferre. Courfeyrac, whenever he shows up. Well - everybody but those two, I suppose, especially when they start with one another. You should hear some of their bickering. Together they give me some of the worst headaches I’ve ever had.”

“Yes, where is Courfeyrac?” Bossuet asks, leaning around Joly. His fingers dust the back of Joly’s neck and stay there. Jehan’s heart skips at the sight. “It’s not like him to miss an evening like this.”

“Courfeyrac is with his mistress,” Combeferre says.

“Which one?” Feuilly asks, to general laughter.

Grantaire kicks at Jehan underneath the table until he gets his attention. “Courfeyrac,” he says, when Jehan leans towards him, “is sorely missed. He is a good man and an even better drinker. I think you will like him very much.”

“Everyone likes Courfeyrac very much,” Combeferre adds, fairly. He smiles warmly at Jehan. “So, what does your father do down South?”

“He works in law, and —”

“Sorry I’m late! Virginie was very eager not to let me leave tonight until she was quite satisfied.” A new man joins them, young in face and vulgar in words, and drops into the chair directly opposite Jehan. “Did I miss anything important?”

“Grantaire has made a new friend,” says Bahorel, from the end of the table.

“We’ve all made a new friend,” corrects Joly, causing Jehan to smile uncontrollably. “Courfeyrac, Jehan.”

Courfeyrac examines Jehan with a raised eyebrow. He is handsome beneath his mop of dark curls. Jehan’s mouth feels dry. More than a little tipsy on wine now, he offers a hand that Courfeyrac takes. “Hi,” he says, a little breathlessly, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear and still smiling. “Jehan Prouvaire. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Courfeyrac laughs, bemusedly. “You too,” he says, and their hands part. Courfeyrac has an iris in his buttonhole that Jehan eyes, causing the man to laugh again. “It belonged to Virginie,” he explains, taking it from his waistcoat. “She likes the colours of it.”

He leans forward and he tucks it into Jehan’s hair with deft fingers. They linger at Jehan’s cheek as he sighs “ _lovely_!”. In a moment they are gone, and Courfeyrac is in rapid conversation with Enjolras about something Jehan can’t follow. He stares at Courfeyrac for a long moment, before being kicked under the table once more. His eyes snap to Grantaire.

“ _Lovely_ ,” Grantaire says, lavishly, and Jehan rolls his eyes at him. “I told you you would like him.”

“Stop teasing him,” Feuilly laughs. Jehan comes to notice how often the others have jumped to his defense against insult. He’s not sure whether he should feel as pleased as he does, but he doesn’t question it; he gives Feuilly a grateful smile. These are perhaps the friends he had promised himself he’d find. Brash, political, kind. Even Enjolras has spoken somewhat kindly to him when he showed an interest in his causes. He could fall in love with each of them, if he let himself.

Standing again, he gestures at the serving girl. “More wine for all my friends!” Jehan announces, delving into his pocket for the payment. He is met with roars of approval, a slap to the back by Joly, a wink from Courfeyrac, and a resigned look from Enjolras.

 

***

 

“Paris is beautiful!” Jehan decides, triumphantly. He promptly stumbles.

Grantaire catches him with an arm around his waist, chuckling. “You should be quiet, or Paris will cut your throat for waking it at such an hour. I fear I have got you very drunk.”

“You have had much more than I,” Jehan dismisses, even as his head spins.

The rest of their friends have long since returned home, citing early studies and much work in the morning, but Grantaire and Jehan stayed at the inn until the man who owned it came to tell them that he really had to close for the night. Their arms are now heavy with the wine they bought to return home with. Jehan is so drunk that he no longer notices the problems he passes. He only thinks of his new freedom in this city and the new friends he can share it with.

“Can you remember where you live? I don’t want to let you walk there alone. You wouldn’t make it further than three steps without me.”

“Such an ego!” Jehan laughs, though leans heavily against his companion. “I live near Notre Dame. You know it?”

Grantaire bursts out laughing and kisses the top of Jehan’s head fondly. “I believe I do, actually. I will take you.”

Jehan doesn’t complain. He sighs at the kiss and lets himself be led through the cobbled streets, eager to return home to drink more and fall into his bed. He has no classes tomorrow and it will be the first day he can sleep in, allow his dreams to fully flourish. It has been a night of civility and joviality and new experience, and when he wakes he wants to seek more of it.

“Did you like everyone tonight?”

“Absolutely,” he says, at once. His tongue is looser with wine. “I sound foolish, but I think I could be at home with you all here. I liked everyone very much.”

“Good. I think they liked you too, especially when you started on the rights of the common man,” Grantaire says, and gives Jehan another squeeze. “We are almost there. Try to stay conscious, if you can.”

“Of course I can,” Jehan says, though he is very tired.

It takes some deep thought and some careful maneuvering, but Grantaire manages to get Jehan up the stairs to rooms without much struggle. Jehan remembers some of what it is to be a good host and he pours them both another glass of wine. Grantaire watches him closely as he does it and downs his in one go, but Jehan can’t take more than a sip without feeling sick.

“Perhaps you should sleep,” Grantaire laughs, and finishes off Jehan’s glass too. “You don’t want to spend tomorrow in agony. Rest.”

After a short argument, Jehan sighs and agrees, and goes into the bedroom. After a moment, Grantaire follows him, laughing. The line Jehan walks is anything but straight, but he makes it in the end.

Jehan’s bed is even more inviting than he remembers it being. He smiles and turns to hug Grantaire tightly. “Thank you,” he whispers, thinking of new friends and helpful guides home, “for tonight.”

When he pulls back, Grantaire is staring at him strangely. His eyes are as glazed with alcohol as Jehan’s must surely be, but the lips he presses against Jehan’s are sure.

Sure, but fleeting. Grantaire pulls away at once and shakes his head, raking his fingers through his hair. He looks devastated, and Jehan puts a hand on his shoulder which gets shrugged off at once.

“Grantaire —”

“I’m sorry. I thought, I — I didn’t think at all. You must forgive the whims of the drunk. They will forgive themselves by forgetting you in the morning.”

“Grantaire,” Jehan tries again, and takes his hand in his own. There was no flare of heat when Grantaire kissed him, and he feels guilty. Grantaire is worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. “It’s okay. It was a mistake. We’ll forget about it. Don’t feel bad.”

“I thought —” Grantaire’s voice is poison. He trembles with it. “You are as pretty as he is. I thought if I kissed you, it might feel as a kiss with him might feel. It was wretched of me, I’m sorry.”

Jehan’s foggy mind tries to work it out. He thinks of Enjolras, sat by Grantaire’s side all evening but barely engaging him in conversation. He thinks of the looks he saw Grantaire give him when no one else was looking, full of desire, full of admiration. The other men were rougher, taller, sturdier. Enjolras is the only one that Jehan could attribute _pretty_ to.

“Oh, Grantaire,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I’m not your Enjolras, but for you, I wish I could be.”

Grantaire laughs, quietly. He moves to sit on the bed, Jehan at his side. “You are a saint, Prouvaire. Assisi, perhaps. I can imagine you spending your life basked in nature and preaching of its purity. You would feed rather than slaughter the starving wolves to stop them attacking.”

Jehan is no saint. He is often too quick to defend himself and he’s always too concerned with matters of the heart, missing what is plain in front of him. He kisses Grantaire’s brow and places a palm to his mouth. “Quiet, Grantaire. You have said quite enough for one night. It is you who should rest. Sleep here, and I will wake you in the morning with a fine breakfast from the market.”

Grantaire’s eyes widen. “This is your bed.”

“I have another bedroom,” Jehan dismisses, smoothing a hand through the man’s tangled hair. The weight of putrid thoughts have soured Grantaire’s face. His teeth are rather crooked and his nose is almost bulbous, but he has fine eyes and a pair of strong hands.

If the kisses had persisted, perhaps Jehan could have found some pleasure in them. But he does not want to find out, and nor, does it seem, does Grantaire.

“Rest,” he says, more quietly. “Forget Enjolras if you can. Sleep and dream, but not of him.”

“A saint,” Grantaire repeats in a murmur. Jehan leaves for the other bedroom.

The bed is not as large or as extravagant, but is comfortable when he strips and slips into it. He hears Grantaire undressing through the wall and wonders at Enjolras, at any hint of returned affection. He had not seen any. He does not know the angelic man well enough to judge, not yet.

Jehan turns on his side and the iris falls from his hair and onto his hand. He squints at it in the darkness. It’s lightly fragranced and the smell reminds him of quick fingers tucking it into his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, and for the wonderful support I've been getting over at [tumblr](http://giraffeontherocks.tumblr.com).


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